This Is What It Feels Like
by Sir-Mercutio-McHuffer
Summary: "So, er, what brings you to Baker Street?" John tentatively asks. "Oh I just felt like bothering Shirley and seeing London again. I won't be here long, and you'll hardly even notice me." At this announcement, Lady yawns from the settee, and both Sherlock and John eye her large and sharp teeth.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** This is a bit of a author's note. It's not necessary to read it, but it may be beneficial prior to embarking on this particular fic.

Firstly, I come from a family of high functioning autists. When I watch Sherlock I'm just reminded of my older brother, only without long hair and with better clothes. Very similar mannerisms (sans the shooting things or playing violin), similar way of speaking ... it's quite funny for me.

Secondly, this is a self exploratory piece. While the details are definitely not exact, I'm exploring my experiences over the last year and a bit. It's proving to be very cathartic. Also a slightly different writing style.

Thirdly, bonus points to anyone who guesses the breed of the dog. I have one. They are hilarious.

Fourthly, this is all completely un-beta'd and pretty fresh off the top of my brain!

* * *

There is a knock on the door, polite and smart. John left not twenty minutes ago to shop, and would not return for another forty (if that), while Mrs Hudson had departed for the afternoon to have tea with the ladies down the road. There would be nattering and scones and old biddies talking about who has married whom, who is having an affair, and the latest news on babies.

Disgusting.

The knock sounds again, still polite though a bit more insistent. They can wait until John returns, if they are that eager to see him.

Sherlock doesn't haul himself from the lounge until it sounds as though the door might be hammered off its hinges, or splintered through the force of the knock. "Will you go AWAY-" he yells as he drags the door open, only to be caught up in a whirlwind of flashing smiles and blonde hair and painfully tight arms around his chest and oh dear lord.

"SHIRLEY!" it shrieks, nose rubbing against his pressed shirt in a suspicious manner. Then the rocking begins. Although, really, rocking is too polite a term to use. Hurling around is more accurate.

People are always surprised to note that a small woman with a vice like grip about the chest can toss around most fullgrown males without much difficulty.

He lets her, though, with only the token resistance of his hands held up and away from her and dim protests of "get it off!" After a short time – shorter than usual – he was released and able to draw a full breath again.

"To what do I owe this displeasure?" he grouses, glowering down at the beaming blonde with a _deeply_ suspiciously large suitcase behind her.

"Oh I was just in the area and thought I'd stay with my ickle buddah for a bit, you've got a spare couch right?" the smile is brittle in the corners of her lips and the skin on her chin quivers.

Large suitcase was indicative of a longer stay than she implied, her clothes rumpled and well worn from a rushed change and immediate departure to the train station. Practical shoes rather than her favoured Louboutins. Red rimmed eyes with an excess film of moisture over them.

The smile drops to become a carefully pursed stiff upper lip. Her left hand twitches, thumb rubbing against white indentations on slender fingers. Ah.

"You'll only get in the way," Sherlock replies, stepping back from the door. The grin returns but it never quite reaches her eyes, wide and restless and desperately not thinking.

"Oh, now, you'll hardly even notice I'm here." She steps back onto the street and cranes her head to the left to shout "Lady! Comecome!" before ploughing past and up the stairs. An inquisitive and long nose shoves itself purposefully into Sherlock's crotch, before the remainder of the dog (long legs, long toes for speed but much larger than a greyhound, saluki perhaps? No, the hair is too long and curly for saluki, although not too dissimilar) shoots up behind its master.

With an exasperated growl, he slams the door shut.

When he finally reaches the top of the stairs, Jolanthe is a whirlwind and Lady, elegantly white and cream, has draped herself across his couch. _His_ couch.

"Oh relax, Shirley, I'll vacuum," she says without looking away from her inspection of the bits and bobs on shelves, the skulls on mantelpieces, flutters of paper and books. "Toxicon from nineteen ninety, ninety three and ninety eight? Who did you bribe to get the original journals?"

"I called in a favour," he replies simply. "They were relevant to a case I was investigating."

"Ah, still doing that?" her aimless ponderings finally bring her to the kitchen, where she opens the door to the fridge and pauses for a moment. "Please tell me you haven't resorted to eating mice straight, have you?"

"That is, in fact, an experiment on the toxin from _bothrops insularis_."

"So not to eat, right. How do you survive?"

A key jangles in the lock and Lady's head perks up, jaw snapping shut and to attention. Jolanthe's eyes turn wide and round and fixate on Sherlock. "Do you have a _girlfriend_?" she gasps, raising both hands to her face in mock horror. The door opens and snicks shut, and John's heavy footsteps begin clambering up the narrow stairs. "Or a _boyfriend_?"

Lady drops herself from the sofa and pricks her ears.

"Oh my god, Shirley, how long has this been going on?"

John opens the door and stops, a nose in his crotch and a blonde woman eyeballing him from the kitchen entryway. "Hello," Jo says brightly, stepping over and ushering a curious Lady away. The charm comes out and Sherlock watches as John is mesmerised and struggles to shift groceries into one arm so that he may take the offered hand. "I'm Jo, I'm Sherlock's big sister."

John looks from Jo – blonde, sweet, and so small – to Sherlock – dark, tall, decidedly _not_ sweet – and back again. The grin she gives him is self-depreciating. "He took all my height and fantastic cheekbones, despite me trying to squash him when he was a kid," she says.

"No, I mean, that's not it, it's just you're..." John's mouth tries to work and it's a near thing, but in the face of _all_ of that Holmes Charm, he is powerless.

Really, they all had it. He, himself, sometimes even deigned to use it. Mycroft had charmed the Queen that one time they met, and used it when occasion called for it. Jo, on the other hand, oozed it. Her face, much more open than either brother, drew people in and beguiled them.

Woe betide anyone who thought her stupid for it.

"Yes, I know," her laugh is pinched. "I was just about to make a cuppa, would either of you like one?" She steps into the kitchen and Lady returns to the couch, an awkward clamber of long legs until she flops and organises her limbs.

"That would be fantastic," John says, following her into the kitchen with the groceries to begin unpacking.

"Shirl?" she asks.

"Ah, yes, English Breakfast if you please."

"Do you have ginger nuts?"

"What do you take me for? Of course we have ginger nuts."

"Where?"

"Out of little people's reach."

"Oi, watch it. I'm teaching Lady to bite people's bottoms," she snaps back, throwing cupboards open and craning her neck on her tip toes to search the top most shelves. John continues unpacking the groceries into the fridge, careful to avoid the mice. Jo lets out a noise of satisfaction, she has clearly spotted the small stash of Griffin's Ginger Nuts.

"Oh, wow, you got the good stuff," she says as she launches herself at the bench and climbs up and onto her knees to reach the topmost shelf. John blinks at her in alarm while Lady watches the scene with growing amusement, judging by the way her tongue rolls out the side of her mouth. Goodies acquired, she drops back to the ground to continue her tea service preparation.

A brief few minutes later and the tea is steeped and poured, milk added ("and don't you dare tell me to add the milk before the tea is poured, because I will throw you out of your own house by the seat of your pants, you heathen"), and a small pot of brown sugar is placed on a tray. The gingernuts are artfully arranged on a plate, most of which end up being devoured by Jo after liberal dunking.

It's all terribly civilised.

"So, er, what brings you to Baker Street?" John tentatively asks. He's smart, he knows there's something terribly amiss that is Not To Be Spoken About, but he hasn't noticed the clear evidence on her ring finger.

That smile returns, the one that's there because showing what's really there would be too painful. Just as she will never admit why she is here. "Oh I just felt like bothering Shirley and seeing London again, it's been _years_ since I've stepped foot in this city." It's rushed and breathless, but John can at least deduce enough not to pry.

"I won't be here long, and you'll hardly even notice me." At this announcement, Lady yawns from the settee, and both Sherlock and John eye her large and sharp teeth.

At least the tea is good.

Later that night, when all have reclined and the house is quiet, Sherlock listens to heart wrenching sobs muffled by dog hair.

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	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Haven't had a lot of time to write this past little while! Too much doing stuff on things. But here we go. I had fun oogling really ridiculously pretty (and expensive) designer clothing.

This is all completely un-beta'd and pretty fresh off the top of my brain!

* * *

The next morning brings about the smell of strong coffee and dog. When Sherlock finally emerges from his room, Jo is elegantly sprawled on the sofa, oversized cashmere sweater rolled up to her elbows, legs bent in tailored ivory slim-line pants. Delicate adornments of gold jewellery are splashed about her wrist and neck. Her hair is gathered up by a chopstick and her Face is on. The one with the carefully sculpted eyebrows, the light dusting of eyeshadow, and wicked slashes of lipstick.

Jo is back in action.

She looks up from her New Scientist. "Would you like a cuppa tea? I was just about to start brewing one, John's just popped into the shower and I thought I'd have some ready by the time he's done with his morning routine." Sherlock eyes the magazine. That such a banal magazine should appear in his flat is almost unthinkable. "And don't deride my choice in literature. Just because you think British Medical Journal is light reading doesn't mean we all must live up to your standards."

Ah, so he had said that out loud. The filter between his brain and his mouth has been a bit looser than usual, courtesy of having John around. It is so much more gratifying when there is someone else listening to his ponderings, rather than the words ricocheting through his brain or, even worse, off blank walls and empty rooms.

"Stop scowling quite so deeply, you'll get wrinkles," Jo says from the kitchen, pouring the water into the tea pot and nestling it in its cosy.

A howl comes from the bathroom and a _thud_ and Lady scampers from the general direction of the bathroom, face damp and tongue lolling out the side of her face in a grin. John storms out, towel gripped firmly about his waist, hair still dripping down his chest.

Lady winds herself through the kitchen to hide behind Jo's legs, peeking out from one side of her pants.

"Did she jump in with you or wait just outside the shower?" Neither comment on how her voice wobbles, nor how her lips are pursed and stiffened.

"Stuck her head around the shower curtain," John mumbles, carefully avoiding looking at her. "Gave me a bloody fright." Her chuckle is a bit damp.

"Make sure the door is snicked shut properly, she's too clever for her own boots," Jo says, turning back to the tea.

"Er, yes. I'll just … go back." John scampers back to the bathroom, cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. Sherlock watches until he disappears from sight.

Jo's movements are slow and very deliberate as she places each cup on each saucer with the tiniest of 'clinks'. Her fingers glide against the china as she retracts her hands. Lady clicks out of the kitchen to clamber onto the couch and spread herself across it.

By the time the tea service is on the table, complete with jimjams (where she found _those_, Sherlock had no clue), her spine had straightened again and her Determined Face was back on. He still had nightmares about the Determined Face. It usually spelled bad news for himself, Mycroft, or both. Especially when she turned it on them. He was quite sure there were still photos from when she dressed them all up and sat them down to a tea party with her teddies. Despite his own humiliation, it was one of his favourite memories. Mycroft had been stuffed into a pink tutu.

"I would have made breakfast, but as I'm not sure what is edible and what may liquidate our insides, I have foregone this," Jo explains, picking up one of the cream-filled monstrosities and nibbling at it.

"You have spared us inevitable death by either hemotoxin or your own cooking, for which we must all be grateful," Sherlock drolls in response, perching his backside on the edge of the sofa near Lady's tail. The dog gives him an aloof look before turning woeful eyes at her mistress.

"I will have you know my cooking has considerably improved since the last time you ate it, which, I will have you note, you did _not_ die from." Jo huffs, taking a sip from her tea to soothe her irritation. Sherlock's lip twitch is more smug than amused.

"And I will have _you_ note that I was unable to keep solid foods down for a week after that _spectacular_ feast you put on." She shoots him a dirty look over the rim of her cup and the lip twitch spreads into a smirk.

"You exaggerating pillock. 'He will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool'."

"'And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but the truth in masquerade'." She remains silent for a moment, sipping her tea.

"I had forgotten how much caffeine I need to keep up with you, Shirl," she eventually says with a tiny upturn of her lips. "Now shut up until I've finished my tea."

"Nonsense, why wait for you to catch up when you are such an easy target now?"

"Why not be sporting?"

"Ah, but then I would not be doing my brotherly duties to you. This is in the fine print, you know."

"Oh shove a jim jam in it." With an amused twinkle returning to her eyes, Sherlock takes a long (and utterly smug) sip of his tea to hide his (equally smug) smile.

"Don't mind if I do." He reaches for the biscuits. His hand closes around one of them and he begins to bring it to his lips when -

The door bursts open and Detective Inspector Lestrade, wrapped against the chill of London in the grips of winter. Sherlock manages to restrain his amusement at the double-take Lestrade does at the _woman_ in his lounge, elegantly sipping from her tea as if men bursting through doors was the most normal thing in the world. He even manages to not snort when Lestrade yelps at Lady's investigation of his crotch. Mental note, that dog has an uncanny ability to work her way through layers.

Jo is unable to contain her own amusement quite as effectively, given her sharp exhale and the crinkling in the corners of her eyes over her cup. "Lady, come," she says as she places her teacup back on its saucer in one fluid movement. The pale dog extracts herself from Lestrade, sneezes, and trots over to her mistress. Lestrade glances between them all, thunderstruck.

"Has there been a murder?" Sherlock prompts.

"Er, yes," he replies with all the eloquence of a chav. Jo glances politely, but pointedly, between Sherlock and the new addition to the lounge.

"Then might I introduce you to my sister, Jolanthe Holmes," Sherlock says as he stands up and gathers his coat, a wicked smile on his lips. Jo levels a Look at him, but stands up and offers her hand to Lestrade anyway.

"It's a pleasure to meet you..." she trails off, which jolts the still bemused Inspector into action, taking her hand in one of his own and smiling winningly.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," he replies. "The pleasure is all mine." Her smile is … shy, reserved, restrained, fragile, when she gives it in response.

"Chop chop, there's a murder to investigate!" Sherlock swings around them, gathering up his coat on his way to the bathroom door. "Murder, John! Do hurry up!" A thud and a few choice swear words emanate from beyond the door, and it cracks open to expel a dressed and dry John Watson, whom Sherlock begins to herd out the door before he has even had a chance to acquire shoes or a jacket.

Jo, for all that she is a woman, is not a woman who has ever taken long to get ready. Indeed, her black Salvatore Ferragamo jacket is already buckled up over a grey cable knit Chanel scarf, matching gloves encasing her fingers. Her feet are encased nude Sergio Rossi boots. Ah, but he had missed her fine taste in clothing. He has a rather soft spot for Sergio Rossi. The lace-up oxfords are devilishly fine shoes.

As needs must, they pause while John acquires his own warm weather gear, Lady already under harness ("not that she needs it," Jo insists, "it just makes people more comfortable when she's on a lead,"), before they tumble from the relative warmth of 221b Baker Street and into the frightfully brisk London morning.

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	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** To A (Maybe) Human. I don't know who you are, but I need you in my life. Seriously, get an account, get in contact. I wrote this chapter _**specifically so I could contact you**_.

Now that I've written this chapter, I'm going to start on another another another fic. Because this is what I do and this is why I need a wrangler (hint hint Human).

This is all completely un-beta'd and totally fresh off the top of my brain!

* * *

London in the winter has a certain aesthetic beauty that even Sherlock appreciates. Jo certainly does, a little quirk tripping up her lips as she nestles her chin into thickly knit scarf. It takes the cabbie a mere thirteen minutes to deposit them at the frigid white entryway of Number 15, Trevor Place.

The tape parts for them, with only a few strange glances at Lady. Anderson is perched in the hallway, glowering as Lestrade escorts them past. For one blessed moment, Anderson's mouth remains shut, and then they are through and into the study.

"Mr and Mrs Worthington in the study!" Sherlock crows, clapping his hands and veritably bouncing through the door. "With the gun!"

"This is not Cluedo, Shirley," Jo huffs from her perch against the doorframe, Lady standing patiently behind her and away from the doorway. Her eyes light up and she tilts her head to address Lestrade, as John is already bent over the bodies to inspect them. "Cluedo was Shirl's favourite game to play, ever since he was old enough to talk. He was so taken with the game that he would play it by himself. In fact, he would steal my dolls and -" a large hand claps over her mouth and her eyes twinkle at the glare Sherlock levels at her.

"You swore you wouldn't tell," he hisses, but her eyes just crinkle further with mirth.

Lestrade gives them an exasperated look. John stands up and snaps his gloves off.

"They were both shot in the back of the head with a nine mil," John says, turning to face them.

"But she wasn't killed here." Sherlock spins on his heel and stalks forward, peering into the exit hole in Mrs Worthington's forehead. "No splatter, and she would have seen _his_ assailant the moment the door opened." His head cocks to the side and he looks intently at Lestrade. "Where is their daughter?"

"Bedroom upstairs, same style," Lestrade replies.

Lady tugs on her lead.

"The drawing room!" Sherlock spins out the door again and down the hallway. "WATSON!" The dutiful John Watson gives them a brief glance before trailing after the youngest Holmes.

Jo sighs and lets her eyes roll upwards. Lady tugs on her lead again, throwing her chest into the harness, and Jo braces herself. She gives the lead a small but sharp tug. "No," she says firmly, but Lady only whines and drops her haunches to push against the restraint. When she gives a yip, Jo stops bracing and, head cocked to one side, follows the cream curled dog as she navigates down the hallway and up the stairs, into the spare bedroom. This area isn't cordoned off. No blood splatter, nothing of great interest.

Lestrade stands in the doorway as Jo lets go of Lady's lead and the hound shoots forwards, around the bed and up to a funny little nook in the corner. It's a peculiarly trapezoid shaped bit of wall, squished in between a built-in cupboard and the outside wall and a sloping ceiling. Under normal circumstances, it would be nothing, but with Lady scrabbling at the floor in front of it, trying to _dig_ her way through, it suddenly becomes something.

Jo stands over her dog, straddling the high back (but only just) as she investigates the wall and cupboard joinery.

"There's something here," she says, stepping back, but Lestrade has already called in a couple of men and she steps back, letting them take over. It's not long before they give up any pretence at finesse and take a mallet to the hollow wall, pulling it apart with gloved hands and hurling bits to one side. When the opening is big enough to fit half a person, a torch is handed forward.

"There's stairs here, sir," the man says, and he passes the torch back to take up the mallet once more.

"The sheets are too clean," Sherlock says from behind them, making Jo twitch and Lestrade jump in surprise. Jo spins, hand pressed against her chest, and stops. Her foot scrapes, eyes narrow, shoulders tip forwards as she spots something. She takes two steps towards the door, fingers reaching then curling back into her palms.

"There's..." she leans down further, eye nearly level with the lock. "There's a number pad here," she says, finger brushing the lock edge. "It controls a secondary lock, separate to the key lock. Look, Shirley," she steps to one side. "It's a microfilm pad, I may not have noticed it if the light hadn't hit one of the circuit wires."

"This wood is thicker than the other doors," Sherlock comments, fingers tapping the painted panelling. "The seal on this door is perfect. Total sound deadening."

Jo runs her fingers down the walls around the door framing, rapping the wood. "Excellent sound deadening in the walls."

"We're through." The men move back, Lestrade taking the torch and point. He eases down the narrow stairs, carefully illuminating the dark before him until he is swallowed up by it. There's a quiet clatter from down there, a breathed "oh shit", and a scuffle. A low murmur, slow and soothing. More shuffling.

"Get a medic!" Lestrade calls from the bowels of the deep dark. One of the men extracts himself and runs down the hallway, no questions asked.

Jo shoves her head out the doorway. "JOHN!" she bellows. There's a startled clatter from down the way and John emerges into the hallway, past a team of techs lurking at another doorway. He blinks owlishly at her. "Medical expertise required," she explains and ducks back into the room, eyes intent on the drama unfolding beyond a crumbling hidden door.

Wobbling torchlight hits the stairs immediately inside the gaping hole. Lestrade's steps are laboured and heavy as he climbs. It's only when John rushes forward they realise Lestrade is carrying an emaciated boy swaddled in blankets, the metatarsalia and ossa tarsi of his feet pressing through his skin with each move. The rest of him is hidden beneath rough wool, but would fare no better.

Lady barks and draws the boy's sunken eyes to her mistress. There is a moment of silence while his eyes widen, pulse jumps in his throat, rattling lungs haul in air, before his screams reverberate through the house.

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